


Renter's Agreement

by beadedslipper



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Harold greatly approves, John is a master chef, M/M, Male Slash, Romance, coming together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:47:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6716836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beadedslipper/pseuds/beadedslipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out John's apartment's policy on pets isn't as stringent as he led Harold to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Renter's Agreement

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a bit of fluff that popped into my head. I love the idea of chef!John and I think Harold would encourage those kinds of hobbies/coping mechanisms in him.

Harold absently scratched at Bear’s ears while reading over the dossier he was compiling on their latest number.  It was an open and shut case and, at this time of night, on this many hours of sleep, Harold found himself perhaps less attentive than Mrs. Fletchwood deserved.

Bear groaned, the sound of a satisfied dog, when Harold’s fingers hit a particularly sensitive spot.  Harold glanced down to see Bear watching him with liquid, half-lidded doggy eyes.

“Maybe you’re right.” Finch murmured, contemplating removing his shoes and reclining with a book in his lap.  Rest.  Home.

The microphone fizzed.  “Finch?” Reese’s voice was a shadow of its normal musicality through the poor medium of a phone.  “I’m pretty much wrapped up here.  You got anything else?”

Harold glanced once more at his monitors.  “Nothing that can’t wait ‘til morning Mr. Reese.”

There was quiet for a minute.  Reese’s shoes crunched on the gravel as he drifted away from the warehouse their previous number had decided to convert into a black market for illegal arms.  The Russians hadn’t been too happy to hear that David Jameson was encroaching on their territory.

“Hey Finch?”

Harold blinked. “Yes Mr. Reese?”

“You hungry?”

Harold opened his mouth to say no but was interrupted by a gurgle from low in his abdomen.  Bear whuffed sympathetically.  Apparently Harold had been more engrossed than he’d thought.

“I could eat.”

“Wanna come to my place?”

The question would have been odd if this hadn’t become another routine for them.  They often went out to eat together or ordered takeout, so sharing a meal was nothing special.  But if the case involved a fair amount of stress, violence, or both, Reese was often too keyed up to simply go home for the night and too wary to be around people. 

Sometimes he went for a run or beat a punching bag within an inch of its continued existence.  Harold knew this because Reese sometimes ‘forgot’ to turn off the microphone on his earwig and so Harold could often hear Reese’s heavy breathing for hours after they had said their goodnights.  Harold found himself simultaneously dreading and anticipating difficult cases, just for that sound in his ear.

However, almost two months ago now, after a case involving a child trapped in the trunk of an abandoned car, John had invited Harold back to his loft where he had proceeded to cook a delicious, and elaborately complex, dinner for them both.  It took nearly four hours to prepare and they didn’t finish eating until almost two in the morning.

As Harold bemusedly watched John stir and sauté and broil and chop that first night he had slowly come to the realization that the complexity of the recipes and the attention required to bring them to fruition distracted John and allowed his brain to come down from the adrenaline high.  However, left to his own devices, John would not go to this kind of trouble for himself.  He needed Harold to be there or else it all fell apart.  Harold understood this and, after everything John had done for him, was more than willing to sit through a long dinner if that was what Reese needed.  In the scope of things, a few hours in the company of one of his few friends was no sacrifice at all.

They had done this three more times since and each time John turned out another masterful meal so Harold didn’t really hesitate in his agreement.

“Ok.” The smile was evident in John’s voice.  “I’ll meet you there.”

“Until then Mr. Reese.”

As usual, they didn’t hang up on one another, but the silence was a comfortable one.  Neither of them were the type that needed to talk simply to fill empty space.  Knowing Reese was there should Harold need him brought Harold no end of comfort.  He suspected Reese felt similarly.

Harold gathered his things, wrapping himself in his tailored wool coat, covering his neck with a green cashmere scarf, and placing his hat on his head.  He packed his laptop into a bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“Bear, hier.”

Bear scrambled to his feet, dancing around Harold’s legs in their usual struggle over the leash.

Twenty minutes later Harold and Bear were entering Reese’s apartment complex.  Harold trudged up the stairs, Bear patiently at his side.  His hip was beginning to ache and his mind was focused on the image of John’s couch and a glass of red wine.

He reached the landing, turning into the hallway, his eyes doggedly following the ground a foot in front of his feet.  He failed to notice the twitching orange tail in his path.

Three things happened in quick succession.

Harold stepped on the tail, an outraged animal yowl filled the air, and Bear yanked on the leash, barking.

Harold yelped and fell against the wall with a thud and a grunt of pain.  He pressed a hand to his racing heart.  A hissing cat, back arched and hair raised, stood before him in the hallway.  Bear stood between Harold and the cat, growling a warning.

“Harold?” John’s voice was urgent in his ear.  “Are you alright?  Are you hurt?  I’m five minutes out, three if I drop the groceries.”

The cat swiped for Bear’s nose, apparently not as easily intimidated as the various members of New York’s criminal underbelly.

Harold glared at the cat.  “I will call animal control on you.” He threatened.

“What?  Answer me Harold or I’m coming to you now.”

Harold pinched his nose.  “That won’t be necessary Mr. Reese.  I’m fine.” Harold replied, slowly catching his breath and beginning to edge down the wall towards John’s loft.

“What happened?”

“I was just – assaulted – “

“What?” John growled.

“ – by a feline.”

“Oh.”

“A stray I have to assume, though it is odd that it would be inside the complex – “

Reese’s voice was hesitant.  “Yeah – “

“Crookshanks!” A feminine voice rang through the stairwell.  “Dammit Crookshanks you get back here – “

A young women ran into the hall, looking slightly harried.  Her eyes zeroed in on the tense standoff between Harold, the cat, and Bear.

“Oh thank god.  Crookshanks.”  She ran forward and swept the cat into her arms, holding it up to her face.  The previously belligerent ‘Crookshanks’ purred loudly, staring at Harold in smug satisfaction.  “Thank you so much for finding him.  I hope he didn’t cause you any trouble.”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle.” Harold’s smile was only a little strained as he examined the woman.

“Well, thank you anyway.” She reached out and shook his hand.  “I’m Heather and if you need anything at all you just let me know.  Cup of sugar is the least I can do.”  She smiled brightly and turned to, apparently, return to her own floor.

Harold had to know.  “I beg your pardon, but do you live in this complex?”

Heather stopped and turned, tilting her head.  “Yes?”  Like it was obvious.

“And the landlord allows pets?”

She raised a brow at Bear.  “He’s a service dog.” Harold explained.

“Oh.” She looked skeptical, but had no reason to doubt him.  “Well, yes then.  There’s no policy against pets here, unusual for New York I know, but I’m so glad.  I couldn’t have left Crookshanks behind.  And Mrs. Tattenale has four birds and Kevin, Kevin Somers, you know, up on the fourth floor, he keeps hamsters.”

Harold blinked.  “I see.  Thank you.”

“Sure thing.” Heather smiled brightly and went on her way.  Harold continued to Reese’s apartment, a scowl on his face, and settled in to wait.

\---

Despite Finch’s reassurances, Reese still hurried home, though he did hold on to the groceries.  He had heard the entire exchange with his neighbor and knew that Finch would be waiting and, most likely, working himself up over Reese’s deception.  With any luck Reese’s computer would still be intact.

“Finch?” Reese came cautiously into the loft, scanning it like he would if he were on assignment.  Finch was settled on the couch, stiff-backed.  Bear was at his feet, looking content as he gnawed on a bone.  Harold on the other hand, had his arms crossed and a consternated expression on his face.  At least he had gotten himself a glass of wine, Reese noted with some relief.

“I believe you have some explaining to do Mr. Reese.”

Harold watched the play of expression over John’s face.  At least he had the decency to look chagrined.  Super-secret spy he might be, but he generally let his true emotions show around Harold.  This reminder of how much John had blossomed since their first meeting served as a balm to Harold's ire.

Harold kept his poker face, determined to at least punish John a little for his deception.

“Apparently the policy against pets here is not as stringent as you led me to believe.”

John schooled his features.  “Oh?”  He walked into the kitchen, sliding the bags onto the counter and absolutely not making a strategic retreat.

He unpacked beef from the local butcher, onions, mushrooms, and a bottle of sherry without looking back.  He heard Harold sigh and push himself from the couch.  The sound of bare feet padding across the hardwood floor had John hiding a smile.  One of Harold’s greatest small pleasures was taking off his shoes after a long day.  That he was comfortable enough with John to do so, in a place that wasn’t even his, filled John with as much warmth now as it had the first time Harold had done it.

To have that kind of trust was a novel experience for John and one that he treasured.

That didn’t mean Harold was going to win the argument he was about to instigate.

Harold padded into the kitchen, sliding onto one of the stools around the marble island and placing his glass in front of him.  He sat up, back ramrod straight just like always, his fingertips placed on the table in a little triangle in front of him.  Then he just watched John with those inscrutable eyes.

On anyone else this tactic would have had them squirming.  Harold’s stare could be very heavy when he wanted it to be.  But John was unperturbed and continued to unpack his groceries, taking this rare opportunity to feel Harold’s full attention lingering on him.

“I thought we agreed never to lie to one another Mr. Reese.” Harold finally said.

Reese looked up.  “Technically you promised never to lie to me, not the other way around.” He fumbled an onion as he said the words, realizing his mistake. 

Finch’s eyes narrowed.  “Have you lied to me often then Mr. Reese?”

John’s breath gusted out.  “No, of course not Finch.  That came out wrong.”  John wanted to add something else but couldn’t seem to find the right words.

Harold watched him closely for a moment as John struggled with himself.  “Alright, let’s try the direct approach.  Why did you lie to me about the landlord’s policy on pets?”

John folded up the brown bags, needing to keep his hands busy.  “I didn’t lie to you exactly.  The landlord really doesn’t like having pets here.  He just gets paid enough to keep his complaints to himself.”

“The point stands.”

John sighed.  “It seemed like a good idea.”

Harold’s brows hit his hairline.  “To trick me into keeping Bear?!”

“Do you mind him that much?”

Harold huffed.  “No of course not.  I just don’t see what you hoped to get out of it.  He is your dog Mr. Reese.  Why wouldn’t you want to keep him?”

John face grew serious and he looked at Harold as if the man were missing something obvious.  “Like I told you, if anyone messes with you, Bear’ll eat them.”

Harold was an incredibly intelligent man.  Humans might make almost no sense, but even his obtuseness had limits.  “You were – attempting to protect me?”

John shrugged, looking uncomfortably like he’d said more than he meant to.  “Your safety is important.”  The ‘to me’ on the end was unspoken, but obvious.

Harold could feel the flush climbing up his cheeks and cursed, not for the first time, involuntary bodily functions.  This was the point where one of them would normally clear his throat and change the subject but, for the first time, Harold found that option less than optimal.

He decided to say something true.

“Well, I suppose I can’t be upset with you when I would go to similar lengths to ensure your wellbeing Mr. Reese.”

John looked up, his expression carefully controlled, but his eyes fairly glowed with unspoken hope.  “Harold.” 

Harold carefully pushed himself off of the stool and made his way around the island.  Reese seemed frozen, his hands on either side of his cutting board, his hips square to the counter.  Only his head, only his eyes, moved with Harold.

Harold placed a gentle, tentative hand over Reese’s fist.  “Thank you for taking care of me Mr. Reese.”

John twitched under his fingers and turned halfway to face him.  “Harold – of course I – you have to know that I – “ John closed his eyes, frustrated.  When he opened them again Harold saw a fresh determination that made Harold’s breath catch in his throat.  He didn’t step back, tacit permission for John to do whatever it was he had decided to do.  In a swift, graceful lunge, John took that permission and ducked his head, pressing his lips firmly to Harold’s.

It wasn’t fireworks and fairytales.  Harold’s world didn’t suddenly fall into place.  It had done that gradually over the last few years spent with Mr. Reese.

Instead what it was was comfortable, steady and intense, with Reese’s hands cupping his cheeks and slipping to knead the back of his neck.  Harold fisted his hands in John’s shirt, eager without being mindless.  They had finally made it to this place and Harold felt no rush at all.

He wanted to savor, just like he savored Mr. Reese’s cooking.

Harold separated them slowly, pressing one more intense, promising kiss to John’s lips before looking up at him.

“We should – “ John was breathing heavily, his eyes dazed, “I should – go make dinner.  You must be hungry and – “

Harold stopped him with a hand on his cheek.  “There are other ways to relieve stress John.”

A slow smile lit John’s lips.

As they made their way towards the bedroom Harold flinched.  He would have to thank that damn cat.

**Author's Note:**

> First person to guess what John's cooking can prompt me and I'll write you a mini-fic to the prompt of your choice. =D


End file.
